


melted down to stars

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Demiromantic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Sex-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, lonely-typical bs, post-159 but pre-safehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27978705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Jon hasn’t let go of Martin since he pulled him free of the cold and the fog and the numbing certainty that nobody would care if he were lost forever. Part of it is necessity.Part of it is the fact that Jon’s missed Martin so much these past few months that he thought he might die, and that if he had to put a name to the butterflies that have made their home in the pit of his stomach, he knows it would start with the letter ‘L.’
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 156
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist, The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge





	melted down to stars

**Author's Note:**

> The week 2 work for the Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge (part 2)! Information on the challenge can be found [here](https://tmahiatusflashfanwork.tumblr.com/)
> 
> rated teen for blink-and-you'll-miss-it discussion of sexual preferences

Martin’s hand is like ice in Jon’s as he pulls him across the threshold of his flat, the lingering smell of saltwater mingling with the whisps of fog that still cling to Martin’s skin and clothing. It makes him fuzzy and unresolved, like a water-damaged polaroid. When Jon guides Martin to the lumpy couch that had come with the flat—an ugly purple thing with stained yellow flowers splattered across it that had probably once been a cheery white—he sits without complaint, the only indication of life within him being the faint pink flush across his cheeks and the way his shoulders tremble as he shivers.

Jon hasn’t let go of Martin since he pulled him free of the cold and the fog and the numbing certainty that nobody would care if he were lost forever. Part of it is necessity; Jon wasn’t sure if he would Know the way out without Martin’s hand clasped with his, a constant reminder of companionship, and the thought of Martin slipping just out of reach again filled him with a sick terror that tightened his grip almost to the point of discomfort. Part of it… isn’t. Part of it is the way that Jon likes how Martin’s hand feels in his, a comfortable weight, fingers mismatched in size and yet folding together in a way that feels more natural than breathing. Part of it is the way that Martin’s been looking at him, eyes still clouded with fog but brighter than before and filled with something that Jon feels reflected within him, causing his heart to squeeze every time he meets Martin’s eyes.

Part of it is the fact that Jon’s missed Martin so much these past few months that he thought he might die, and that if he had to put a name to the butterflies that have made their home in the pit of his stomach, he knows it would start with the letter ‘L.’ And he’s so, so tired of reaching out only to find empty air.

But Martin’s still shivering, and Jon’s sure that he has a thick woollen blanket tucked away in his linen closet and that a cup of tea would benefit the both of them. He thinks, too, that he has a hoodie tucked away in his closet that used to belong to Georgie that would probably fit Martin, because his jumper still smells of the sea and probably will no matter how many times it goes through the wash. So he gives Martin’s hand a final squeeze and says, “I- I’m going to go put the kettle on,” before letting go.

Immediately, Martin’s eyes blow wide with terror, his pupils consumed by swirling greys and blues. “No,” he says, the word swallowed by a gasp like it’s been punched from him against his will. “No, no, no—”

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon says, feeling that same terror reflected within him as he reaches out and folds Martin’s hand back into his. The effect is almost instantaneous; the tension bleeds from Martin’s shoulders and his string of pleas cuts off with a shaky intake of breath, like he’s just now remembered how to breathe.

There’s a moment where it’s only that; Jon holds Martin’s hand, Martin’s skin icy cold against his, and Martin breathes in and out until it’s closer to even. Then, his eyes firmly affixed to his lap, Martin says softly, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jon says, just as quietly.

Martin’s eyes squeeze tightly shut. “It- it was like I was _there_ again,” he says, his voice tight and choked. “When- when you let go, the _fog,_ it just—and, and the _cold,_ and I was _alone_ again.” His grip on Jon’s hand is tight, and Jon’s thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of his hand as he says, barely more than a whisper, “I don’t want to be alone again.”

“You won’t,” Jon says, with more certainty than he’s ever felt about anything. He sits on the couch next to Martin, moving their hands so they’re resting against his leg. “You don’t have to be alone ever again, not if you don’t want to.”

“What if… what if I can’t?” Martin looks at Jon, his eyes wide and pleading and mist still swirling within the grey-blue of his irises. “What if it’s too late, and- and this is just who I am now? God, I- I’m so _cold,_ Jon, and it- it feels _comfortable._ I don’t know if I’ve just gotten used to it or if it- it’s just a _part_ of myself, and I’m so _scared._ I don’t _want_ to be scared, I don’t _want_ to be alone anymore, but I just- I just _can’t—_ ”

“ _Martin._ ” Perhaps impulsively, Jon raises his free hand and cups the side of Martin’s face, rubbing a gentle thumb along the curve of his cheek. “You _won’t._ ” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and lets his eyes slide away from Martin’s for a moment—he’s always had trouble maintaining eye contact in times like this, when he tries to bare something within him too sensitive for the gaze of another and has to look away—before he draws in a breath and pulls them back. Because he _needs_ Martin to believe this. To know that he means it.

“I- I’m not really very good at this,” he says, which while true, isn’t quite the start he was hoping for. He furrows his brow and continues, “The- the being open about my emotions part, that is, not the- the actual emotions _themselves_ , though those can actually get quite complicated as well because they just seem to come so _easily_ to everyone else—not, not _all_ emotions, rather, just the- the romantic ones, those ones take a little bit to- which is to say, by the time I realized that I loved you, it- I thought it was too late, and I need you to know that it’s _not._ Too late, that is. If you… if you still want that.”

Martin’s quiet, and Jon realizes that he’s let his eyes slip away from Martin’s after all, his gaze landing on one of the horrible yellow flowers just next to Martin’s shoulder. With effort, he drags his eyes back to Martin’s and sees them blown wide with shock. “What?” Martin finally says, his voice cracking around the word.

Jon forces himself not to drop Martin’s gaze as he says slowly, carefully, deliberately, “I love you, Martin. I don’t know if you meant what you said in the Lonely, or if- if you even remember what you said. But if you did, I- I just want you to know that I feel the same. And so you don’t have to be alone, not- not if you don’t want to be.”

His hand has fallen from Martin’s cheek, he realizes belatedly, as he doesn’t feel the heat from the slow flush that colours Martin’s cheeks a deeper pink. He still smells of salt, and his hand is still ice cold, but the hesitant smile that pulls at his lips brings with it a warmth that Jon can sense more than he can feel. “Oh,” he says. It’s a small sound, but it’s filled with so much wonder and disbelief that it smothers Jon all the same. Martin’s quiet for a moment longer, words slipping on and off his tongue so rapidly that none will stick long enough to be spoken, before he finally says, haltingly, “Can… can I kiss you?”

His cheeks are burning red, like he’s just requested something terribly embarrassing or self-indulgent, and Jon finds it so heart-wrenchingly endearing. He squeezes Martin’s hand tightly, and his other one returns to Martin’s cheek. “Martin,” he says, the adoration that’s bubbled up within him leaking into that single utterance of a name that means so, so much to him.

Jon leans forward, and kisses him.

Martin’s lips are just as cold as his hand, and they part ever so slightly in surprise. Martin’s free hand comes up to cover Jon’s where it sits on his cheek, and it’s _cold,_ and Jon pushes deeper into the kiss if only to pull that warmth he can feel tickling beneath the skin of Martin’s cheeks to his lips and his hands and his chest.

Then, it’s like months of absence and longing come crashing down upon him, and Jon _kisses_ Martin, feeling warmth curl within his own chest as he moves his hand to cradle the back of Martin’s head, scratching his fingers lightly over Martin’s scalp. When Martin sighs against his mouth, Jon takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, feeling the hand that Martin’s slipped into his hair tighten as he does so. They shift, and then Jon’s straddling Martin’s lap, pushing him back against the couch and letting himself touch and feel and love everything that he’s been pushing aside for so long. Because he can, Jon detaches himself from Martin’s mouth long enough to press a kiss to his jaw, to his temple, to the spot behind his ear, to the hollow space where his neck meets his shoulder. He lingers there, pressing a soft collection of kisses along the line of Martin’s shoulder and neck, and then—because he can—he finds that same hollow space as before and scrapes his teeth against it.

The noise Martin makes is high and keening, and when Jon pulls back, Martin’s face is flushed a deep, warm crimson. Jon considers saying something teasing, but what comes out instead is, “I- Christ, Martin, I really missed you.”

Martin lets out a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah, I- I got that.” He pauses for a moment; then, quieter, he says, “I missed you too, Jon. Even though it… it might not have seemed like I did.”

“I know,” Jon says softly. It’s not entirely true; Jon doesn’t know what Martin felt those months he let himself slip further into the fog, or what he saw when he sat in a fluorescent-lit hospital room with only his own heartbeat to keep him company, or how it feels even now to be unable to shake the chill of loneliness even when you’re no longer alone. But he understands. And that’ll have to be enough.

Jon pulls Martin in for another kiss, soft and patient and just a few degrees warmer, and puts everything else out of mind. Perhaps later, they’ll have to pack their things and board a train to Scotland under the insistence from Basira that they won’t be safe in London anymore. Perhaps they’ll sit in the stiff-backed train seats, just shy of being comfortable, and lean against one another with hands clasped loosely in the space between them as they share a pair of headphones and stare out the window as the landscape turns green and grassy-hilled. Perhaps they’ll find themselves in a small cabin with dust collecting on the windowsills and a meagre collection of books that they’ll both scoff at for entirely different reasons and a single bed that they’ll collapse into together without a second thought, and in the morning they’ll wake in each other’s arms and Jon will stutter through his sexual preferences (none for him, thank you very much, but he doesn’t mind watching sometimes) and Martin will kiss him softly and with a small smile mutter something about ‘voyeuristic tendencies’ that earns him a glare with no heat behind it.

But for now, Jon holds Martin close and hopes dearly that he never has to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)
> 
> you can find the tumblr post for this fic [here](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/post/637131485378428928/melted-down-to-stars)


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